Thrilling with curiosity, and without fear, the girl groped her way softly downward to the passage, starting as the murmur of voices came to her from the other side of the door. "I was right. He is here!" she thought, and flung herself down on the floor in the darkness and listened with her ear against the door. It was Mme. Lorraine's clear, bell-like voice that was speaking. It ceased its impassioned utterances at last, and a deep, rich, manly voice replied to her--a familiar voice that made Marie's heart beat tumultuously and a sweet, warm color glow in her cheeks. "It is he," she whispered, forgetting hunger, weariness, everything unpleasant in exquisite relief and joy. CHAPTER XVIII. Almost a week had elapsed since the last visit of Mme. Lorraine to Eliot Van Zandt. During that time he had been very ill from the fever brought on by his agitation at her indiscreet announcement of the death of the girl in whom he had been so warmly interested. All Mima's skill and care had been required to ward off a fatal consequence to this relapse, and the woman had sternly forbidden any more calls from her mistress during this critical state. Mme. Lorraine was so frightened that she was very obedient to the mandate; but now the embargo had been removed, and she was free to visit the fascinating patient. He was better. Indeed, he was rapidly convalescing, owing to Mima's good nursing, aided by his youth and a strong constitution. So, on this lovely April morning, madame had made herself beautiful by every device of art at her command, and hurried through the secret door to visit the wounded captive whom she held in durance vile. Pale and wan, but exceedingly handsome still, Eliot Van Zandt lay upon a velvet lounge, his fair Saxon beauty thrown into strong relief by the dressing-gown of dark-blue silk that madame's care had supplied. At the entrance of the superbly dressed and handsome woman, his dark brows met with a heavy frown. "I gave orders, Madame Lorraine, that you should not be admitted again!" he exclaimed, with the frank petulance of convalescence. Madame gave her graceful head an airy toss. "No one can debar me from the privilege of entering any room in my own house," she replied, coolly. "Your own house?" starting. "Precisely," with a maddening smile; and for at least two minutes a dead silence reigned in the room that, with its swinging-lamp burning brightly, presented the appearance of night, although it was midday outside. Then he exclaimed, angrily: "I had already become convinced that there was something mysterious in my sojourn here. I have found out that I am in an underground apartment from which there is no apparent egress. I know that no living soul but yourself and your servant has been near me since I was ill. Am I, then, your prisoner?" Smilingly, she replied: